


Whatever Happens in 221C

by flyernerd



Series: Barrett of 221C [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 10:46:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyernerd/pseuds/flyernerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A college-age cab driver named Barrett looks to let the 221C flat and unintentionally gets caught up in the adventures of the flat above him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever Happens in 221C

I can name every British Prime Minister dating back to the very first (Sir Robert Walpole, 1721) and also every American president and most Roman emperors. Strangely enough, these talents didn’t convince Oxford to accept me on scholarship, so I drive cabs in London. I spend my time explaining to my tourist passengers the differences between London and the City of London, and get my internationals to talk about their political system. I even get the occasional statesman to debate public policy with.  
My mother tells me I’m a wasted talent. My mother once won Jeopardy and is now close friends with Alex Trebek. Today, she called me while I was on duty. I had to fish my cell phone (embarrassingly blaring the Bee Gees) out of the centre console and interrupt my conversation with a forty-year-old businessman from India.  
“Barrett,” she said, “are you still driving that cab? You can’t do this for the rest of your life, Barrett.”  
“Mum, I’m gonna find someone to let me a flat,” I said, “look, I really can’t chat now…”  
“You never call me, Barrett. You know how I feel about Susie and how she dropped out of university. Did I tell you that she ranted for twenty minutes about how she hated that school and all of the students? Twenty minutes! And hasn’t called me since.”  
“Look, I’m on duty, I’ll call you later,” I promise, flipping my mobile shut and tossing it aside. The Indian guy smirks but says nothing. I’m still a tad red when I let him out a few blocks later.  
To be honest, I never thought about letting a flat. It’s pretty expensive, but my current commute is a bother, plus it involves living with Mum. In the evening, I scour the adverts in the Times, searching for a cheap flat.  
“You could get a flatmate,” Mum suggests, looking over my shoulder, “split the cost, you know?”  
“Who’d want me for a flatmate?” I mutter. I find a promising place and rip it out, tucking it in my coat for tomorrow.

Baker Street is busy, and I pull up in front of the address. 221. I hesitantly knock on the door, only for it to be immediately ripped open by a tall man in a trench coat. He halts, and stares at me. I awkwardly stand on the doorstep. He abruptly closes the door again, in my face, and I hear footsteps fading up a flight of stairs. I’m about to knock again when the door opens once more. This time, it’s a shorter, less intimidating man in a colourful jumper. He peers at me oddly.  
“Hello,” he says, extending a hand, “Dr John Watson.”  
“Barrett Stevens,” I reply, “Do you, er, own this place?”  
“I live at 221B,” he says, a tad confused.  
“I, er, saw this in the Times,” I hold up my scrap of newsprint with the advert for the Baker Street flat.  
“Ah, yes! I’ll direct you to Mrs Hudson, the landlady. Please, come in! I’ll take your coat. I just hope that Sh-“  
At that moment, the trench coat man bursts out of a door upstairs. He sees me with Dr Watson and freezes again.  
“John! Why did you let that git into the flat?”  
“He’s looking to let 221C,” John replies mildly.  
“I hope he likes violins,” the man mutters, stomping back into the upstairs room.  
“Sorry about him,” John said hurriedly, “Sherlock Holmes may be a genius, but he’s anything but polite.”  
A short, grandmotherly woman hurries into the foyer. Again, I introduce myself, state my intentions, and she takes me on a tour of 221C. It’s really just a basement, but that makes it cheap, and I need cheap. I agree to the rental on the spot. She says I can move in tomorrow.  
Mum’s furious. She tells me I’m abandoning her like my sister Susie did, that I’ll never amount to anything, that I’ll come crawling back to her sooner or later. I shrug, as usual, and pack my stuff. She refuses to let me use her car to transport my things, so I have to beg my boss to let me use my cab. It all barely fits, in both the boot and the passenger compartment.  
“Welcome, welcome!” Mrs Hudson chimes as she opens the door for me. “Now, look, honey, I’m not your housekeeper, but if you need anything, let me know! Also,” she says with a smile and wagging finger, “Don’t you let those boys upstairs bother you! They’re sweethearts, the both of them.”  
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, mostly just wanting to unload my bags. She smiles. “You’re such a polite young man.” And I’m left alone.  
Finally! I roll out my carpet, set up my armchair and telly. I gently unpack the box of pictures, and loving hang each frame on the bare walls. The replica Magna Carta gets a special position on one wall, and next to it goes my authentic World War I propaganda poster. My historic Viking helmet (yes, a replica, but modelled on an authentic piece) gets a place of honour on the mantelpiece. I’ve just finished settling in when I call Mum.  
“Barrett! Did I tell you, Susie called! Can you believe it? Wanted to talk to you!”  
“She did? Susie called? What about?”  
“Wanted to ask you about your museum stuff. Said she found a Viking helmet at a yard sale; wanted you to tell her if it was authentic. She said she’s living outside of London now, maybe you should visit her!”  
“Yes, yes, I’ll see.”  
“It’s so nice to hear from you, Barrett…”  
“Yes, Mum, I…”  
“The funniest thing happened this morning, with Ms Perkins across the street! You know how…”  
Suddenly there’s a knock at the door. I figure it’s just the landlady checking on me.  
“Sorry, Mum, I have to go, the landlady needs to talk to me.” I quickly hang up before she can protest, and unplug the phone so she can’t call back right now. I pull the door open and find the point of medieval pike directed at my skull. It’s the trench coat man.  
“Step aside,” he commands, and I do so, keeping my eyes on the pointy weapon. Didn’t Mrs Hudson refer to him and Dr Watson as “sweethearts?” The man takes a cursory glance over my quarters. He studies my WWI poster.  
“It’s a fake,” he informs me, dropping the pike on my carpet. Not one to miss a chance, I leap upon it in an attempt to arm myself. With a flick of his shoe, the man flips it into the air, grabbing the handle firmly and pointing the tip at my face again. I back away slowly.  
“Look here,” he says, “My name is Sherlock Holmes. Sometimes I play violin for days on end. Sometimes I accidently start fires in my kitchen. Sometimes I purposefully start fires in my kitchen. I fairly often attract criminals and assassins to this address. Hope you don’t mind any of that. Do you mind if I leave a skull down here?”  
“Excuse me?” I gape at Mr Holmes. He sighs. “I did hope you weren’t as thick as you looked.”  
“I’m not thick!” I exclaim, “And why would you leave a skull here?”  
“Well, last week I started leaving it around for her to find, like in the microwave or in the kettle, so she confiscated it. It’s no longer welcome in my flat, apparently.”  
I’m a tad stunned by this man, but I wordlessly accept the skull he holds out to me and gingerly place in on the mantel beside my helmet.  
“Look, I think we’ll get along quite well. We both have interests in the English government, for example, though mine are a bit more personal than yours. And I hope you don’t think that living here will prevent your mother from nagging you about doing more with your life. More likely she’s worried that you’ll lose contact like your older sibling–ah, sister?–did. Thank you for keeping my skull. I may need to stop by to talk to it occasionally. I do hope that’s no bother. Welcome to Baker Street.”  
He turns to leave. “Wait!” I cry, utterly flabbergasted, “How did you know all that about me?”  
“I observed,” he says without turning back, “A dying trade, really. Pity.” And my door closes with a soft click. I stare at the skull on my mantelpiece and plop in my armchair, not at all sure what to make of this Sherlock Holmes.  
I’m awakened two hours before my shift starts by the thump of boots storming down the staircase. I peek out my door to see Holmes wrapping a scarf around his neck, and Dr Watson grabbing a coat from a hook.  
“Where are you going so early, Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson calls.  
“Early is right!” John says, “Leaving before I finished my tea!”  
“I got a call from Lestrade!” Holmes grins, giddy like a child, “there’s been another murder! That makes three this week! And they’ve got something on CCTV!”  
“It’s like Christmas and your birthday all in one,” John mutters, not looking pleased to be up this early. I close my door and fish around for the recent Times. Sure enough, there are blaring headlines reporting the two murders. Both were university students and both were found with their ring fingers missing, neatly cut from both hands. I shudder and wonder why my neighbour is so pleased with the news.

“Are you at university?” asks one of my passengers, a middle-aged woman who says she does weather forecasts, but refuses when I jokingly request a prediction.  
“Hopefully in the future,” I reply.  
“Don’t hurry. University students are being targeted. They say it’s a serial killer.”  
“Lucky for me.”  
The next man carries a long, thin package and requests to be dropped off a block away from Buckingham Palace. I try to engage him in conversation, but he grunts and taps his Blackberry. After a university student, a banker, and a couple from France, I’m almost at the end of my shift.  
“Taxi!” A man leaps in front of my cab. I slam on the breaks, and he and a friend hop in. I look in my mirror and realize it’s none other than Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson.  
“St. Bartholomew Hospital,” Sherlock commands. Then, he stops, and blinks. “Wait a second…Barney, is it?”  
“Barrett, actually, I prefer not be called--”  
“Do you know him?” Watson asks.  
“As do you, John. He’s our new neighbour on Baker Street.”  
“I don’t really like nicknames…”  
“Oh, so it is! Yes, he’s bad at names; you should see him with my girlfriends.”  
“It’s not my fault that they are all incredibly dull and thus, I have no reason to waste mind space remembering their names.”  
“Look, about yesterday, Mr Holmes…”  
“Please, call me Sherlock.”  
“Yes, Sherlock, er…How did you know all that about me? About my mother and sister and that I liked government?”  
Sherlock sighs and leans back in his seat. John chuckles. “This is a pretty standard question for people just meeting him,” he explains.  
“It was so obvious!” Sherlock says. “Your Magna Carta and World War I poster scream political science fanatic. But you’re barely twenty-one, so you either dropped out of university, or never went, which is why you’re merely interested in government, but not yet involved. So, not at university, just let a cheap basement flat that is frankly less than ideal…must be your first flat. You just moved out of your parents’ house, and you don’t have a high-paying job. It’s only natural that your mother wants you to do more with your life. Your furniture is nice, but second-hand, because it had dog hairs in the fabric and you don’t have a dog. It’s probably an older siblings’, from their very first flat. The paisley pattern suggested sister. Your telephone was unplugged, meaning you’re expecting a call from someone you don’t want to hear from: probably an overbearing mother. Why is she overbearing? Your older sister must not keep in touch, and she doesn’t want to lose you as well. Now, you’ve missed the turn for St. Bart’s.”  
I was so amazed by Sherlock’s deductions that I completely forgot that I was being paid to take the pair someplace.  
“When do you finish your shift?” Sherlock asked abruptly. John looked surprised at the question, and a bit hurt.  
“Um, at five, why?”  
“No reason. Thank you for the ride.” Sherlock left the car. John looked at me apologetically and handed me a wad of bills before hurrying after his companion.  
I drop off my cab at the car park and begin my walk to Baker Street. It’ll be a relaxing evening…maybe I’ll even call Mum, let her know how things are going. Suddenly, a hooded man steps out of an alley and stands in front of me. I freeze, not sure whether to run or stand still. In one swift motion, his arm comes whipping towards me. I feel a throbbing pain in my left temple, then everything goes black.

I wake up in a well-lit room in a comfy armchair. My head aches like hell and I blink several times to clear away the spots on the edge of my vision. When the world comes into focus, I’m shocked to see Sherlock himself standing a few feet away, pensively entwining his long fingers.  
“I’m sorry, Barney, but it was necessary.” He says, not sounding particularly apologetic. I twist around to see if John is around; he seems to be the voice of reason to keep this madman under control. No such luck.  
“You’re not bound to that chair or anything,” Sherlock tells me, “but I wouldn’t recommend leaving.”  
“Where am I? And why? Who are you, actually?”  
“I’m Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. You are here because I am detecting you.”  
“What for?”  
“Serial murders.”  
“What?!” I gasp.  
“Yes, you’re a suspect. You moving in downstairs, not being at university, being a cab driver…it’s all too perfect to be a coincidence. Plus, your fondness for political science; specifically, historical items. Tell me, Barney, about the helmet that rests on your mantelpiece beside my skull.”  
“It’s a model of an authentic Viking helmet,” I sputter, “I got it as a graduation gift from the museum in Cardiff where I worked during secondary school.”  
“What are the brownish tints around the front forehead area?”  
“I didn’t know there were any.”  
“Well, I noticed them,” Sherlock declares, “so I took the liberty of ‘borrowing’ Mrs Hudson’s key to your flat so I could take a sample.” He holds up a small plastic bag with–sure enough–reddish brownish flecks. “I studied them at St. Bart’s today. Due to my extensive knowledge of the subject, I was able to determine beyond doubt that they were bloodstains.”  
Bloodstains? On my Viking helmet? Where was this even going? “My friend made the helmet for me. Maybe he hurt himself operating the metal machinery,” I blurt out.  
“I was hoping you would make this easy,” Sherlock said softly. “When I present the evidence against them, people tend to cave and confess. It’s easier for them, that way.”  
“I didn’t do anything!”  
“The evidence is too strong.”  
“What evidence? That I have a Viking helmet?”  
“Yes!” Sherlock exclaims. He thrusts his mobile phone at me. I take it gingerly.  
“CCTV footage from the most recent murder,” he says by way of explanation. I see a dark, blurry figure come up behind the woman, who’s engrossed in her mobile phone. There’s a glint and the woman falls. The killer kneels over her, blocking the camera’s view, but presumably removing her ring fingers, like the other victims. That’s when I see it. Sure enough, the killer is wearing a Viking helmet.  
“No…” I whisper.  
“Confession?” Sherlock asks hopefully.  
“Show me the footage again,” I demand, an idea suddenly occurring to me. I watch the stab, the fall, then jab the pause button as the murderer bends down.  
“Look, I worked at a museum for two years, acting as a tour guide to show people around the European history section. I know a lot about Vikings.”  
“Uh-huh,” Sherlock says with boredom in his voice.  
“There are a lot of misconceptions that people have about Vikings. The biggest one is that people reckon Vikings had horns on their helmets. Now, any authentic Viking helmet will not have horns on it. It was simply made up by poets and painters.”  
“Yes, I know,” Sherlock says drily, “I did observe the lack of horns on your helmet.”  
“Exactly,” I say quietly, “this guy’s got horns.”

Sherlock is astounded. He looks at me, then at the paused video again. I get the feeling that this is a guy who does not like to be wrong. He looks like his ears are gonna erupt.  
He plops down on the sofa below a spray-painted, bullet-ridden wall, drumming his fingers incessantly on the coffee table. He doesn’t move anything, other than the fingers. He doesn’t even blink. I don’t know how long we sit like this, but eventually, the door opens and John walks in.  
“Why’s he still here?” John asks, “You still haven’t gotten the confession out of him?”  
“It wasn’t him,” Sherlock mutters, “wrong hat.”  
“But he fits so well!”  
“Horns! There’s always something!”  
They let me go home, and I wobble downstairs to 221C a bit shaken. I sit down and turn on the telly and lose myself and try to forget the crazy couple that lives upstairs in 221B. I doze off.  
I’m jolted awake at midnight, second day in a row, by the pounding stairs and John and Sherlock rush out of the house. This time, unfortunately, I’m spotted when I try to peek through a crack in my door.  
“Look, Barney’s awake!” Sherlock cries.  
“Sherlock, leave him alone. I’m surprised he hasn’t moved out yet, considering how you’ve harassed him.”  
“He can’t move; he still has my skull.”  
“That’s where your skull went?! You can’t make this kid look after your skull for you!”  
“Mrs Hudson was going to confiscate it!”  
John sighs. I was just closing the door on their banter when Sherlock looks at me once more.  
“You, Barney,”  
“Barrett,” I correct.  
“Yes, whatever. You should come with us. Tell us more about the Vikings.”  
“Him? Come with us? Sherlock, this is gonna be dangerous!”  
“Yeah, this kid could use a little danger. What do you say, Barney?”  
I thought. I had a my day off. This seemed like an interesting adventure. I slowly shrugged, and said “Sure.” Sherlock was delighted.  
In the cab ride, poor John was squashed in the middle seat. He looked incredibly disgruntled about having me along.  
“Where I we going?” I ask timidly.  
“Oh, yes,” Sherlock sits up, alert, “I was hoping you’d do us a favour.”  
“A favour?”  
“Yes, we need a kid in their early twenties to be bait for the serial killer.”  
“Excuse me?!” Funnily enough, I’ve spent enough time around Sherlock that I’m hardly shocked.  
“Yeah. John’s traced out a pattern in the attack locations. So tonight, we’ll have you walking alone, distracted, and try to get the killer to attack you.”  
“I’m sorry….that sounds like a bloody awful idea.”  
“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Just pretend not to be paying attention, but actually be on the lookout for people wearing horned Viking helmets.”  
“Right.”  
The cabbie lets us out on Regent Street. It’s empty, and a tad eerie. John hands me his phone and directs me towards a small, dodgy side road.  
“Just walk down the street fiddling with this. When you see the killer, just press this button here, and we’ll come running. We’ll be watching. Good luck.” Sherlock slaps my back and sends me down the road. I’m terrified. I’ve never been serial killer bait before. I remember from the video that the killer stabs the victim, then cuts off their ring fingers. Why the ring fingers? Are they a jeweller or something? Why not just remove the rings? I nervously tap at the keyboard, pretending to text some random contact in John’s phone named Sarah. My peripheral vision sweeps out the area ahead of me. I remember that in the video, the killer came up from behind. My stomach clenches and I strain my ears for any footsteps closing in. If Sherlock and John aren’t watching closely, the killer may get to me before they do.  
A pebble skitters along the sidewalk behind me. I spin on my heels and sure enough, a figure looms over me, the streetlight behind them darkening the face but creating a silhouette of the horned helmet. I stumble backwards, desperately jabbing at my phone and hoping that John and Sherlock get the message. The figure, cloaked in a trench coat not unlike Sherlock’s, advances menacingly, brandishing a long knife. I freeze. I’ve seen that knife before. It’s my own dad’s hunting knife, which he gave my sister for graduation.  
“How’d you get Susie’s knife?” I whisper, terror and confusion in my voice as I try to get a look at the figure’s face. I hear running footsteps behind me, and John’s voice shouting something indistinguishable.  
That moment, the figure grabs me, wrapping an arm tightly around my neck and pointing the knife at my throat. I see John’s gun raised.  
“Shoot, and I’ll kill him,” the killer grunts harshly, as if trying to disguise their voice. John holds the gun steady.  
“That’s right,” the killer says, “now, go back to the main road, hail a cab, and go home. Don’t do anything sudden or this kid gets it.”  
“Just go!” I shout at them, my voice half-garbled with fear, “I’ll be fine!”  
John clearly wants to shoot, but Sherlock rests a hand on his arm, and John slowly lowers the gun. Wordlessly, the two retreat, and the figure begins dragging me backwards, not lowering the knife nor releasing me.  
“Who…are you?” I gasp for breath. We stumble into an alley, and the figure throws me to the ground next to a building. I struggle for breath and look up at the killer, who’s standing a few metres away, the knife quivering in my direction.  
“You can’t tell anyone.” The figure says. The voice is no longer disguised, and I’m taken aback when I hear it’s distinctly female.  
“Who are you? What do you want with me?”  
“It’s me.” She pulls off the horned helmet to reveal wavy brown hair not unlike my own, except longer. She steps into the light of a streetlight. I gasp.  
“Susie? But–”  
“You,” she says, pointed her knife at me again, “cannot tell a soul.”  
“No no no no no,” I groan, gripping my head, “this can’t be right, oh God, Susie…”  
“I’m going to let you go,” she says, “because you’re my brother, and you’re not at university anyways. You cannot tell a soul; do you understand me, Barry?”  
Barry. She’s calling me Barry, my kid nickname. I hated that nickname, and she never called me anything else. She sheaths her knife, replaces her helmet, and slips out of the alley like a whisper of a shadow.  
I sit there, leaning against the building, my ragged breath coming in short gasps until I see Sherlock and John running down the street.  
“Here!” I try to call, but I can barely form the words. Still, Sherlock hears, and they come running into the alley.  
“Barrett, are you hurt?” John rushes to my side. I manage to shake my head.  
“He’s in shock,” John says.  
“I need him to tell us what happened,” Sherlock replies.  
“Let’s get him home first.”  
They help me up and back to Baker Street. I collapse in my armchair, the one that Susie gave me, as Sherlock correctly figured out. Sherlock wants to stay and question me, but John ushers him out, insisting that I need quiet and rest.  
“You’d have to be soulless to try to interrogate that boy now, after what he’s been through,” John says quietly as they head towards the door. I strain for Sherlock’s response, and catch a few words before the door shuts.  
“I know.”

I walk up to 221B in the morning. Sherlock opens the door.  
“Where’s John?” I say urgently.  
“Out. Groceries.” Sherlock replies shortly.  
“Good,” I settle into a chair, “It was Susie. My sister. My older sister, Susie.”  
Sherlock says nothing. He raises an eyebrow and pours a cup of tea from the kettle. He offers it to me, but I shake my head.  
“She told me not to tell a soul,” I say by way of explanation. He nods.  
“Motive?”  
“Um, she dropped out of uni a month or so ago. Always ranted about it, how much she hated everyone there.”  
“Good enough for me,” Sherlock stands, “where did you say she lived?”  
He dials the phone as I recite her address. “Lestrade,” he says, “Found your killer.”

I stand off to the side when they bring Susie in. She’s struggling and shouting, but goes limp when she sees me.  
“Barry,” she stammers, “I told you not to tell anyone!”  
“I didn’t tell a soul,” I reply.

I read about Susie’s confession in the Times. She dropped out of university, had a grudge. She was cutting off the ring fingers because all her targets wore class rings with the university crest, which she then burned. She cut both fingers to try to hide the motive.  
I rest my head back, and time passes by. John and Mrs Hudson drop by to check on my mental state. Sherlock pops his head in to remind me that my World War I poster, which the seller assured me was an original edition, is a clever forgery. Then, a new visitor drops by. He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him until he tells me.  
“You gave me a ride in your cab,” he says, “You dropped my off near Buckingham palace. I looked you up afterwards, because you seemed like an engaging young fellow.”  
I remember him. He had a long thin package and only grunted when I asked questions.  
“I hear you’re interested in political science. I may have an alternative employment opportunity for you. You see, I occupy a minor position in the British government, and I’m looking for an assistant.”  
“That would be a dream come true, sir…” I say, a tad dumbfounded by this stroke of fortune, “But, I haven’t been to university yet. I’m sure I’m not qualified for the job.”  
“No, you are exactly what I'm looking for.” He rises and extends a hand, “My name is Mycroft. I look forward to working with you.”


End file.
